Mark Abernethy: Golden Serpent

He didn’t.

Game on.

Making as if to move towards the pedestrian crossing, Mac saw the traffi c lights turn to amber. He stopped, turned back to the bookstore, an academic catching sight of something. Then he counted down ten seconds to himself, not looking at the crossing at all. The kid would be getting jumpy, probably also having to feign interest in Windows XP boxes or a book on economics by Samuelson.

Mac heard the squawking of the green pedestrian signal and waited until he heard it stop. Seven thousand, eight thousand, nine thousand

…

He counted it down slowly then stood straight and started towards the crossing. The crowds had crossed and a few people were building up again on the kerb as the light fl ashed red. He had fi fteen metres to make the crossing. He accelerated and made the distance in four strides. Horns sounded and cars edged forward as Mac ran across the four lanes.

He made the east side of the street and slowed to a walk, panting slightly as he slipped into the cool of a crowded convenience shop.

At the newspaper rack he turned and waited. He could see the kid across the road, rubber-necking like a tourist worried he wouldn’t see another kangaroo.

Mac needed to make sure any backup broke cover too. He picked up a banana from a display tray and moved back into the swirl of the shop, positioning himself behind two customers. On the other side of Broadway, a middle-aged tenderfoot had his hands in his pockets, whistling at the sky. Mac thought he knew that face. It was ludicrous.

He guessed the backup had made him, so the tail would hang back. Mac bought the banana, left the shop and kept walking with the lunch-hour pedestrians along Broadway as it swept around left towards the broad boulevard of George Street. In front of him the panorama of Sydney’s theatre district opened up. Mac was certain that the backup guy would now have stepped in as the main tail. His mind spun with the possibilities. They both looked Aussie. Service? ASIO?

Two blocks down the slope of George Street Mac came to an old hotel bar on his left, with several identical glass-door entrances spaced about ten metres apart. He sped up, doubling his walking speed through the foot traffi c. As he reached the last glass door on the corner he turned left without stopping and pushed straight through into the pub.

It was dim inside. No one looked up from the horseracing on the bar TVs as Mac moved through the gloom and a door marked BISTRO. He kept moving through the cool of the air-con, into the pokies parlour, with scores of slot machines whirring. Against the far wall was a glass door that led back onto the street.

He took off his jacket, put his left arm on the top of a pokie machine and looked at it intently, while keeping an eye on the door under his left armpit. Almost immediately the backup passed the door, stressed and sweating. Perfect.

Mac was straight out the door and into Mr Backup’s shadow. He was hoping that by removing his jacket he’d lose the tail who was probably behind Backup. Suits not only change your colour – they change your shape.

Mac blended into the pace of the street and followed Backup, who was dressed in pressed blue jeans, riding boots and a windbreaker

– way too hot for the weather and a sign that the bloke was probably armed.

Mac watched him slow, fade to his left at the door Mac had disappeared through forty seconds before. Mac was closing so quickly that by the time Backup moved through the inward-swinging door, Mac was right behind him. He moved into the small of the guy’s back and pushed the banana in hard, steering the portly bloke towards an empty bench table that looked out on the street.

‘Keep your hands open and where I can see them, mate,’ he hissed.

Backup did as he was told.

‘And make that a schooner of New, you bludging bastard.’

Backup hit the table and turned. His fl orid face glowed.

He smiled.

‘Jesus Christ, Macca. Sorry, mate.’

Rod Scott was an old colleague from the Service who was once expected to rise through the ranks, do a lot of lunching in Jakarta and KL. He was at least ten years older than Mac and had been assigned to the young Alan McQueen during the fi rst Iraq War. And here he was tailing friendlies in Sydney.

Mac shook his head, threw the banana on the table. ‘Mate, what are you doing in the fi eld?’

Scott’s face dropped and Mac instantly regretted his cattiness.

‘Fuck it, Mac. You want that beer?’

The door fl ew open. Mac had been waiting for it. The young crew-cut tailer came through in exactly the pose Mac had expected: right hand under his left armpit and into his backpack.

Scott stepped in. ‘It’s okay, mate,’ he said, holding the youngster’s arm. ‘I’ll see you back at the car in thirty. Right?’

The youngster slowed his breathing and looked from Mac to Scott as the punters in the pub went back to their racing. He was confused as he made for the door.

‘And mate,’ muttered Scott, ‘stay off the air on this, all right?’

The youngster nodded and left, giving Mac a sneer.

Mac winked.

Scott brought two beers back to the stand-up table.

Mac worried at his watch. ‘Better make it snappy, mate. Only got a couple of minutes.’ The tension had gone out of the air -

Scott hadn’t been tailing Mac, as such, just having a look at his movements before moving in for a chat.

Scott’s eyes lost their professional hardness as he sipped his beer.

‘Sorry about this bullshit, Mac. Tobin’s got something for you. Urgent.

He wants to talk.’

Mac felt the bottom fall out of his day. Greg Tobin was the Asia-Pacifi c director at the Service. He headed a territory that spread from New Delhi across to Tokyo and down to Jakarta. Tobin had taken over from Tony Davidson four weeks earlier in what had been one of the most unpopular successions in Service memory. Even in a profession staffed by sneaky little shits, Tobin was the alpha shit. He was the new breed: slick, expensive suits and armed with an MBA. Not high on fi eldwork experience but great at getting promoted. Tobin had not acknowledged Mac’s transition agreement, which meant he might pretend it didn’t exist.

‘I’m on the way out, Scotty.’ Mac eyed the beer but decided against it. He didn’t want Diane thinking he was on the piss with the boys.

‘Thirtieth of January and I’m gone, right?’

Scott nodded, not meeting Mac’s eye. ‘Look, mate -‘

‘No. You look. I’ve done it all by the book, I’ve done it totally the way Davidson and the department wanted it.’ Mac felt his anger coming up and he breathed deep. He could see Scotty was scared. ‘I’ve even landed a straight job. This Sydney Uni gig is Davidson’s doing.

Look at me,’ said Mac, holding his arms out, looking down at his charcoal suit and black offi ce shoes.

Mac realised he’d been yelling slightly and he calmed it. ‘Christ, Scotty, why didn’t someone just call?’

Mac already knew the answer to that one. Getting into the spy trade was the easy part. Surviving the debriefi ngs, departmental threats and surveillance on your way out was another thing. Intel operatives never really left the life.

Mac had been where Scotty was now back in ‘02. A fi nancial operative named Kleinwitz had tendered his resignation. The offi cial reason: he’d fallen in love with a local bird during a posting in Manila.

Problem was, Kleinwitz was simultaneously applying to the Australian Trade Commission. Mac was in Manila at the time and was thrown the debrief.

He didn’t like it. Kleinwitz just didn’t vibe in love. His fi le had no trail of love affairs – no wife, no girlfriends, no interoffi ce bed-work, no whoring. His colleagues had him as a professional robot.